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I was astonished on two counts. Firstly, that you and Tom had a “usual” place, and secondly, that the Clock Tower Café was it.
I do think he’s perfect. Ideal, even. And it’s more than his body (though that is ideal, too).
my policeman.
Then he took off his helmet and I saw his hair for the first time, his hair and the exquisite shape of his head. This nearly knocked me off balance.
my policeman’s
my policeman,
My policeman is nothing like Michael. Which is one of the many things I love about him.
my policeman
Which is why, of course, my policeman is very dangerous, despite the light and the delight.
my policeman
My policeman is alive and well and he is coming to meet me at the museum.
my policeman,
my policeman
my policeman.
He was too young. Too vulnerable. And far too beautiful.
My policeman
My policeman was no different.
I saw the color rise in my policeman’s cheeks, and understood what a risk he’d taken in uttering such an opinion in my presence.
We hadn’t yet become lovers, and in that photo there is something of the promise—and the threat—of what was to come.
my policeman,
my policeman,
my policeman
I can still hear him saying my name. It was like hearing it uttered for the first time. Same time next week. An age until then.
And then: the unmistakable line of his shoulders. My policeman was standing, head on one side, looking at a rather mediocre Sisley we’ve currently got on temporary loan. No uniform (the same jacket as before). Magnificently alive, breathing, and actually here, in the museum.
“She’s no good, though. Never gets any better.” I’ll bet she doesn’t, I thought.
My policeman
I would touch my policeman’s shoulder in a slight but unmistakable gesture, a gesture that said, Come along, darling, it’s getting late, let’s go home to bed.
my policeman
my policeman
my policeman.
Keep touching my own neck, as if in preparation for where my policeman’s hand might go. Or his lips.
My policeman is standing on my rug, gloriously upright, the light from the chandelier catching his blond curls, and he’s looking around with his mouth slightly agape.
my policeman’s
My policeman was here, and he was smiling.
It all warped, the whole room, into the feeling of my policeman’s fingers in my hair.
My policeman rested his head on the back of the chesterfield, his hand in my hair. Neither of us spoke for what seemed like hours.
That laugh, those glittering eyes, are good protection, from the world and from himself.
I saw the headline in the Argus: CHIEF CONSTABLE AND 2 OTHERS ACCUSED—at last, our boys in blue are the ones facing social disgrace and possibly imprisonment—but it sank when I realized what this might mean for my policeman.
I could live like this with my policeman. We could spend evenings chatting to friends, sharing a drink, behaving as though we were—well, married.
“Well. One learns to live as one can.” I took a long drink of brandy and added, “As one must.”
I thought it even then, holding his poor, beautiful body in my arms. They’d won. He’d let them win. I’m still furious with him for that.
I can’t bear the thought of my policeman sullied by those enraged looks.
“For a policeman, you’re very romantic.” “For an artist, you’re very afraid,” he said.
I was groggy from sleep and had stumbled from bed in just my pajamas, still half dreaming of him, and there he was: tense-faced, damp-haired from the night.
We looked at each other for a long moment. Then he smiled. “Were you really dreaming of me?”
After I gave my seal of approval, he rewarded me richly. For the first time, he came to my bed and he stayed the whole night.
Waltzed around the apartment, alone, until I was giddy. That’s what Mother says. I’ve gone all giddy. It’s a wonderful feeling.
Here, not only can I touch my policeman, he can stay with me all night, his heavy thigh clamping mine to the mattress.
I suddenly pictured his mother cutting him triangles of meat-paste-filled white bread and felt a new rush of love for him.
